


The Prettiest Face

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Based on this post by twomenofnote of tumblr:drunk john, grinning stupidly, telling sherlock in between hiccups that sherlock has the prettiest face he has ever seen (https://twomenofnote.tumblr.com/post/182377115444)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 132





	The Prettiest Face

“You have the pred…presh…”

“Predicated? Pressurized? Stop talking and focus solely on walking, John; you’ll send us back down the stairs trying to do both at once.” Sherlock attempted to get his bladdered blogger’s weight more securely upon his shoulder, keeping an iron grip on the wrist John was ineffectually flapping as if he thought air currents would assist his attempts at speech.

“ _Prettiest_ face,” John insisted. “I have ever seen.”

“You are so very drunk,” Sherlock replied feebly, after a startled silence.

“And you are so very pretty. _Byooful_ , Sherlock. Angelic. Like an angel. Angelike.”

“So very, very drunk.”

“Curls like one of those baby angels. Arse like a statue.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah, a statue of Christ. You looked _'mazing_ when Mycroft stepped on yer sheet. All…skin and folds and I looked because I just had to, you know?”

“Um.”

“And then I looked away right quick because I had to. You looked bloody gorgeous. Wanted t’ grab at all those folds an’ scratch lines down your back.”

“Stop talking John for heaven’s sake. Move your feet. Step, come on!”

“Bossy. Love your voice too though. Soft, loud, fast, wha’ever. You do a mumbly thing when you crash after a case. S’dorable.”

“I am not _adorable_. I am _trying_ to get you upstairs and in bed, and would appreciate it if you’d _shut up_ and help.”

“Oh! Right then.” John perked up unexpectedly and made a terrifying charge up the remaining steps, causing Sherlock to have to scramble to ensure they didn’t end up in A&E.

“Finally,” the detective huffed as he half-guided, half-threw his flatmate into bed. John bounced once and then settled, giggling into the coverlet.

“Roll over,” Sherlock ordered while tugging at John’s shoes. “You might very well part company with some of that swill you were downing all night; you need to be on your side.”

John attempted to cooperate but his coordination was absolutely shot; Sherlock was sweating and swearing by the time he’d gotten the man down to shirt, pants, and socks.

“Right. Now stay put; I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said while none-too-gently tugging the coverlet out from under his flatmate and flipping it haphazardly over his sprawled form.

“What? No, stay, ‘ve got everything up here,” John whinged at him. Sherlock stopped and frowned.

“What, water and paracetamol?”

John burst into giggles again and Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated at himself for actually stopping to listen to the rantings of a man drunk enough to wax poetic about his washed-out, lanky flatmate’s looks.

“No, condoms and lube. Different kinds, in case you were picky.”

“What?!”

“Even have wipes an’ flannels an’ your favorite lotion tucked away in case you ever said yes,” John announced proudly, a sloppy smile on his face.

“In…case… _I_ said yes?” Sherlock asked, reeling at what sounded to a desperate, fragile hope like fairly convincing proof that John wasn’t just blindly on the pull for whatever warm body was nearest.

“Yuh-huh,” John said, and then yawned so widely Sherlock feared for his tempero mandibular joints. “Been wanting you for _ages_ , you bloody beautiful…benius bebective.” Another round of giggles followed after John got stuck on the letter “B”, and then as Sherlock stared, the doctor yawned again and then melted into the mattress.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” John mumbled sleepily, eyes already closed as he patted a bit of bedsheet near him. “C’n jus’ have a cuddle if you want.”

“I’ll just…go get some water.”

“Nooo.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Staaaaay.”

Sherlock cursed John’s stubbornness when the man actually began to crawl toward the edge of the bed.

“For God’s sake, John. I um…I need my pajamas.”

“Mmkay.”

Sherlock made his escape, and very nearly stayed escaped. But thoughts of John suffering more than he needed to in the morning - or afternoon - when he woke up sent him determinedly back upstairs with two bottles of water and some painkillers. He'd only waffled for a minute or two, but John had already slipped further into a drunken stupor.

After manhandling the non-verbal pile of sludge that John had transformed into against the headboard and patiently feeding him sips of water until one of the bottles was empty, Sherlock propped John up with some pillows and then blithely ransacked the nightstand.

The top drawer was a mess of odds and ends; notepads and pens, a rubber though there was no pencil in sight, a stray earring that John had never gotten around to returning to whichever girlfriend had lost it - Melissa? Jessica? something with double esses - and the trusty Sig tucked all the way in the back. He shut the drawer and moved on to the next.

Condoms; John's preferred brand. Not a new box, already opened, two squares missing but Sherlock was fairly certain he'd find them in John's jacket, unused. Three different tubes of lubricant, all unopened, and some scattered sachets which were obviously the remnants of a greater set. Unscented almond massage oil, opened but no noticeable amount missing. A test rub between the hands, then, to make sure the oil wasn't gone rancid or some other such thing. A new packet of unscented wipes, and a neatly folded stack of flannels.

And an 8 ounce bottle of Sherlock's preferred hand cream.

John had sniffed appreciatively at the light scent once, but had recoiled in horror when told the maker and price. Sherlock had offered to share his own stock, but John had laughed and declined, stating that he wouldn't be able to wash his hands once he'd put some of the stuff on for fear of spilling money down the drain.

Sherlock popped the cap. The foil seal was gone, but...

He unscrewed the top entirely. The inside of the cap was pristine, and the surface of the lotion still had the soft curl always left behind by the filling process. So, opened so as not to waste any time fiddling with the safety seal, but not used. Kept, as for a special occasion.

In case Sherlock ever said yes.


End file.
